The Hound of Baker Street
by Regnant
Summary: As far as John knows, Sherlock Holmes is dead and he's having trouble coping. But what happens when a mysterious dog crashes into his life, quite literally? Will he be able to gain her trust and solve the mystery of what happened to her? Seriously, how does a dog have a mysterious past? Clearly there's more to this than meets the eye. **Werewolf Fic/Eventual John/OC **
1. A Night Out

**Okay, so its obviously not the most cannon fic ever written, but it begged to come out, so enjoy. Feel free to review...or not. Up to you :)**

**Per the usual routine, I do not own Sherlock. No infringement intended.**

.:...:.

Rain drizzled over London, fogging up the street lamps in a miserable spray that was just enough to be irritating, but not enough to ruin anyone's plans. John wished it would downpour. Maybe then he would have an excuse to stay home.

Somehow, he'd gotten himself roped into going out for the night with Greg and a couple other cops he'd only met in passing back before...no he wasn't going to think about that. At first he'd declined. After _it_ happened he hadn't felt like going out or making friends or doing much of anything. He let his blog rot. He stopped working (not that he ever really was). He barely even went out to do the shopping. It was pathetic.

Lestrade came by off and on and invited him on nights or even mornings out, but John always turned him down. This particular afternoon Greg phoned and practically begged him. Something about needing a night away from the case he'd been working on, though it was more likely another ploy to get John back out in the world. The next thing John knew Greg was talking about meeting at some pub at eleven. He tried to protest, only to hear the tell-tale click of someone hanging up before he could get a word out. _Sneaky bastard_.

At first, he considered just not showing up. He could say he'd forgotten the name of the place or he couldn't find it, but it didn't take him long to decide that Greg would see right through both excuses and ultimately guilt won out over his hesitation. Greg had remained a loyal friend even when John had shut him out in the beginning, shut everyone out. Saying no was one thing, but it seemed extra rude to just blow him off. Besides, John reasoned, maybe this would be good for him? The more he thought about it, the more he convinced himself it wouldn't be so bad.

So at 10:30 he pulled on his coat, shoving his keys into one of the pockets and headed out. He flagged down the first cab he saw, pausing a moment before he sighed and clambered in. _Get it over with_, _John_, he thought to himself. He quickly told the driver where he wanted to go, a little pub a long enough distance away to make walking impossible, and they were off.

.:...:.

Elsewhere in London, a large, white dog stumbled her way through the darkness of a back alley, her cream tinted fur soaked red at the chest and right, hind leg. Her progress was slow, her body limp, blue eyes dulled by pain and exhaustion. A barely detectable hitch in her step was all that betrayed the searing pain she felt with every movement. Few people would recognize the wolf in her and even fewer could believe a human mind lurked beneath those teeth and claws. Werewolves didn't exist, especially not werewolfdogs. She was a Husky, maybe a mix, but nothing more. It was a lie people told themselves to feel safe.

She was used to it.

Five years. Five years of rage and revenge had come to an abrupt, violent end and she was just done. Everyone she'd ever known, everyone she'd ever loved or hated was gone. There was no one still who mattered and no one left she mattered to. The emptiness of it numbed her to everything but the cold chill cracking its way into her bones. She had no master, no family, no purpose. She was just...hollow. Exhaustion weighed down on her like a thick slab of cement, squeezing out every last drop of strength. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew she was dying, but she couldn't bring herself to care. Who would miss her? No one.

She should've just laid down, let death dig his icy fingers into her heart and finally, finally sleep, but something drove her to keep walking. Hope? No. She'd given that up a long time ago. This was just the last burst of adrenaline charging her batteries while her body shut down. She didn't even realize she'd wandered into the road until white, hot lights throbbed in front of her. She squinted but made no effort to get out of the way, not even when the car honked its horn or the tires screeched in a futile effort to miss her.

Unfortunately, she wasn't numb enough to escape the pain of the vehicle colliding with her right side, sending her skidding across the pavement. She lay limp, not even raising her head. Her eyes were open, but she saw little more than shadows. This was it. She wasn't exactly ready and she was scared, but she didn't fight it. She could hear voices shouting around her, dim and distant. Even in the state she was, she knew it was two men. One was yelling at the other, but about what was not important. In a few moments, none of it would matter.

Her eyes closed slowly, her consciousness unraveling as she sank into the earth. She was a breath away from being gone forever, but something pulled her back. Anger and fear exploded inside her when she felt a hand work through the fur on her chest. A voice, the one who'd done the shouting was murmuring something, but whatever it was didn't make it through the panic fueled static of her brain. All that mattered was the hand and getting it off of her.

She thrashed, snapping her teeth at whatever unseen enemy had dared to touch her. The hand withdrew quickly, the voice muttering something again. She dropped back on her side. Her mouth fell open and she began to pant. There was a hiss and the voice's owner brushed her forehead in smooth, light motions, rubbing his fingers over the notch in her left ear. She growled, wanting it to stop, wanting him to go away.

_Just let me die in peace.__ Please... I don't want to be here anymore._ But, of course, he couldn't hear her.

The voice continued speaking and someone slowly slid both arms underneath her. She felt herself lifted and everything went dark.


	2. Large, White, Dog

John started regretting his decision to go out almost immediately. What if they asked him about...things? He wasn't sure if he was ready to answer. It'd been almost four months since _it_ had happened and people were starting to wonder about him. They found it easy to forget Sherlock: the serial killer who'd kidnapped children and blown up an old, blind woman to boost his own ego. At least that's what everybody thought. John was never going to believe it. Sherlock had been an arrogant dick ninety percent of the time (okay, ninety-nine percent, maybe even a hundred), but he wouldn't have hurt those people. So why did everyone expect John to suddenly be okay? His best friend was... how was anyone expected to move on from that sort of thing? Plus, if one more person asked him if he and Sherlock had been a couple he was going to shoot somebody. He wasn't gay. He really, really wasn't.

Very briefly, he toyed with the idea of asking the cabby to turn around, but there was no point in chickening out when he was already on his way there. He could do this. It was just one night. John shook his head. Since when did he have to give himself a pep talk to go have a beer? He inhaled sharply through his nostrils and set his jaw, frowning a bit. This was stupid. He'd been to war, for God's sake. He should be able to handle a pub. No, not should. He _was_ going to and it was going to be great. After all, it was just a drink and Greg had been trying to get him out for ages. It would do him some good to see other people for a change. He'd have fun, and if anyone asked him about what happened or how he was doing he would just lie and say that he was fine. Nothing to it.

The cab jolted forward, tires screeching, and John had to throw his hands in front of him to keep from smacking his head against the seat. He heard the sickening thud of the vehicle colliding with something big and his heart leapt to his throat. He seriously hoped they'd just knocked over a rubbish bin, but the horror on the driver's face told him otherwise. Ignoring the dizzying rush of adrenaline surging into his limbs, he jumped from the backseat and hurried to the front. The driver got out and followed him, face pale and sweating. Thank God the place was deserted. The last thing they needed in a situation like this was people gawking.

"What the hell happened?" That sounded a lot harsher than he'd meant it to.

"It wasn't my fault!" the cabby answered, immediately on the defensive. "I-it just walked right out into the road. I couldn't stop...the rain."

It? John gave him a quizzical look. They'd hit somebody and this man was calling them an it? But when John rounded the cab, he understood. Laying there, eyes half lidded and vacant, wasn't a person, but a large, white dog.

He sighed, kneeling down in front of the animal. Such a shame. It was a beautiful dog. He'd never been much of an animal person, but that didn't mean he liked to them dead in the road. He'd run over a cat once, a long time ago and the poor woman who'd owned it had been so devastated. He tried not to think of the memory and focused instead on what was in front of him. His fingers brushed the sticky, red fur around the dog's chest and he frowned a bit. Odd. Was it from the crash or something else?

"I don't understand. It didn't even try to move. Just let me hit it. God, what am I going to tell my wife?"

John glanced back at the driver, who was obviously in shock. That second of distraction was enough for him to nearly have a heart attack when the dog sprung back to life, snarling and snapping wildly at him. It's rather large teeth came within a centimeter from skewering his hand. He jumped back with a shout, falling onto his butt. Instead of attacking him further, the dog fell back on it's side and began to pant.

"Jesus, you alright?" the cabby asked.

"Yeah," John said with a quick nod, not even looking at him.

Alive. Not dead. It was alive. But it was in bad shape. It's (or rather her's, he realized) eyes were wide and frightened, but clearly unfocused. From blood loss or neurological damage? He honestly couldn't speculate. He was a people doctor, not a vet and this dog clearly needed one.

"It's alright," he soothed, cautiously reaching his hand out a second time.

She growled, a sound somewhere between anger and desperation, but didn't try to bite him again. John took this as a positive sign and carefully stroked the top of her head. For the first time, he noticed that her face was covered in scars, dark skin showing through in ugly slashes from many previous fights. There was a tear in one of her ears, not recent. He looked for a collar, but couldn't see one through all the fur. A stray then? It would make sense, but it didn't change the fact that she needed help.

"Shhhhhh. It's okay. It's okay. Let's get you out of here," he said.

He pulled off his coat and wrapped it around her before gently sliding his arms underneath her. He lifted her slowly, careful not to injure her further. She weighed almost nothing, certainly much less than he'd expected a dog her size should. So malnutrition as well then? At first she was tense, but then her body went completely slack and he might've thought she was dead if weren't for the bubbles forming in the blood around her nostrils. Not dead, but likely to be soon if nothing was done.

"I'm sorry, no animals in the cab."

John glared at the cabby, who immediately held his hands up in surrender. "If I get blood on the seats my boss'll kill me."

"Then maybe you should've been watching where you were going," John snapped, his sympathy for the other man disappearing. Ignoring the cabby's protest, he popped the door open and slid both of them inside. The dog was in his lap, slightly on her side, eyes completely closed now. The driver didn't seem to know what to do, so John shouted, "Nearest veterinarian, now!" and then added, "I'll pay you double."

That seemed to shake something loose and they were on their way. John watched the dog the whole time, counting the bubbles as they came. One. Two, Three, four. Five. Her breathing was shallow, too shallow. Right before they reached the vet, he took out his phone and typed a quick text. to Lestrade.

_-Cab hit a dog. Took it too the vet. Sorry.-_

Well, that was one way to get out of it.


	3. Sherly

John sat in the waiting room of the emergency vet with his hands clasp together over his knees, leaning back uncomfortably in a chair much too small for him (so, pretty small). Blood covered the jacket hanging loosely from his fingers. He tried hard not to think of the last time he'd seen so much blood in one place. He hadn't been able to save Sherlock, but he might've managed to save this dog. He wasn't exactly sure why he was still here, well, beyond the fact that the cabby had abandoned him the second John forked over the cash. He could've easily gotten another cab, but he hadn't even tried. It wasn't his dog. He hadn't even been the one to hit it, not technically. Yet, for some reason, he still felt responsible for her.

About an hour ago, he'd rushed the dog inside, propping open the door with his elbow as he passed through because the driver hadn't even offered to help. There were only two other people there: a frail, tired looking woman in her mid-thirties, and the receptionist. The receptionist saw John and the dog in his arms and immediately rushed out back. Seconds later, two others followed her, carrying a dog sized stretcher (which for this dog was basically a human sized stretcher). They instructed him to put the dog on it and he laid her carefully onto the bright, blue fabric. A second later, they were gone. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and rubbed a bloody hand through his hair.

His mobile buzzed in his pant's pocket and he quickly fished it out._ -Another time, then._- It was Greg. The weight of guilt pressed down on him. He could still go, catch a cab, but he didn't really want to.

"What happened?" It was the other woman.

John looked at her dumbly for a moment before spotting his coat on the floor. It must've fallen off when they'd rushed the dog out back. He quickly snatched it up, grimacing at the stark, red smudge it'd left on the white and blue tile floor. He realized he was pretty much ignoring the other woman and glanced back at her. She was waiting patiently, eyes kind and sympathetic.

"Uh, got hit by a cab."

"Oh, that's terrible! So good of him to drive you here though."

John gave her a tight lipped smile, but said nothing. She kept watching him and he started to feel uncomfortable. Her eyes said she was expecting something, but what? And then he realized.

"What's happened to yours?"

The woman heaved a sigh, her eyes brimming with tears, and he immediately regretted asking. Without a word, he reached over to the box of tissues and handed her one. She offered him a sad smile in thanks and took the tissue, blowing her nose loudly.

"He's-He's dying." John felt his stomach tighten. "I was so stupid. I-I shouldn't have left the chocolate on the counter. Oh, God, Poopsie."

She broke out in sobs, burying her head in her hands, and John suddenly wished to be somewhere, anywhere else. Thankfully, the receptionist came back out and called him over. He glanced at the woman, who waved him off before heading to the counter. With thinly veiled indifference, she handed him a clipboard with some paperwork on it. He was about to say the dog wasn't his, but she left to help the others before he could say anything. Unsure what else to do, he grabbed a pen and dutifully went back to his seat to fill out the forms.

Name. Age. Breed. Neutered or Spayed? Up to date on shots? Regular vet? God, these people wanted to know a lot. For most of it, he checked the unknown box, leaving the regular vet slot blank. Under why he was here he filled out that she'd been hit by a car, scribbling out the day's date for when the "condition" had started. As for a name. Now that one was a tricky one. He paused. Did he really want to name it? If you name it, then you keep it. That's the rule. He was pretty positive Mrs Hudson would throw a fit if he brought home a dog, so he left it blank.

By the time he was done, the other woman had quieted from sobs into small sniffles. She watched him as he got up and returned the clipboard to the counter. The receptionist was back and she took them with a nod. He should've left then. He could've. He wasn't too far from 221 Baker Street, which Mycroft had stubbornly insisted on paying for even though John had wanted to move somewhere else. But it felt...wrong to leave. So he sat there and waited another half hour before someone came and called the other woman out back, their face giving away nothing. She looked nervous and John sympathized. Shortly after, another vet, an older man, quite tall, with a stethoscope hanging from his neck, came and got John. Together, they walked into an empty exam room. John was sure he was about to hear that the dog had died.

"So the good news is that she's stabilized." _Oh, thank God_. "The bullet went clean through and missed any major organs, but it nicked her jugular. Frankly, it's a miracle she's alive at all."

John couldn't keep the shock from his face. "She was shot?" How? Why? Then he remembered the dark, ugly spread of blood on her chest. She'd just walked out in the road, dazed, because she'd already been on the edge and they'd hit her. No wonder she'd been so scared.

"Yes. I thought that was why you're here." He checked the paperwork and his brows furrowed. "Hit by a car. That would explain the scrapes. How did she get loose? Where is your leash? There's also the matter of her collar..."

"Oh, she's not mine," John said quickly, feeling an irrational pang of guilt. "The cab I was in ran her over."

"Well, in that case, you can go." When John hesitated, he added, "We'll make sure she gets to the proper authorities and they will find her a good home if she pulls through this. She's lost a lot of blood."

Well this had been a waste. He'd waited a whole hour, blown off Lestrade, and given up his evening just to be told to go home? That felt...wholly unsatisfying.

"Can I see her?" The vet looked at him like he was crazy. "I feel bad for what happened. I just want to make sure she's okay."

Reluctantly, the vet nodded and motioned for John too follow. Out back there were rows of cages, tiny crates built into the wall from floor to ceiling. Most were empty, but a few contained dogs, cats, and even a ferret. Tubes stuck out of a puppy and he noticed the woman from the waiting room crying in front of the kennel. A vet tech was there comforting her. He wondered if her dog would be alright, but quickly brushed the thought aside when they rounded another corner and the entire building filled with an unholy shrieking. It was a jagged mixture of rage and terror, the kind of noise no animal should ever be able to make, and he instantly knew it was the dog they'd hit.

He and the vet ran past another set of cages and burst into the next room. The dog was on the floor, teeth bared, an iv rolling on the floor in front of her. Two empty bags of saline were on the examination table and another was half full on the floor. A spray of precious blood colored the walls and one vet tech was huddled a step back, holding his arm, while the other two advanced slowly on the dog.

Every time one got close, she screeched at the top of her lungs and lunged forward. Her eyes were wild, but more focused than they'd been before. There was a kind of ferocity in her gaze that went beyond fear. It was primal, instinctive. For an animal who'd been shot, she was surprisingly agile.

Doctor senses kicking in, John went over to the man who'd been bitten and reached for his arm. "I'm a doctor," he explained and he didn't get any resistance. The wound wasn't deep and bled only marginally. He had a feeling it could've been much worse. The guy would need a round of rabies injections, but he'd be fine. As John was bandaging up the injured vet tech, one of the others swooped in and tackled the dog while the third distracted her. She snarled and scrambled to get out of the woman's grip, clawing both techs in the face while they tried to subdue her. The vet quickly grabbed a muzzle, the solid kind that barely allowed dogs to breath, and secured it over her mouth with expert precision. All it did was panic her more.

The scream went up a few pitches and the dog doubled her efforts to get loose. John let go of the vet tech's arm and walked forward, blind rage overtaking him. Before he even knew what he was doing, he'd shoved both vet techs off of her. They protested sharply, looking at him like he was crazy. The vet sprang back in surprise and the dog scurried backwards into the wall, eyes locked on John, breathing hard. Her pupils were blown so wide he could hardly see any color in them. Her fear was overwhelming and he felt his heart might burst, but he forced his breathing to slow.

For a long moment, nobody moved. Then the vet slowly reached over and grabbed a slip leash. The movement caught her eye and she growled, a deep, menacing tone this time. Only the edge of it held fear. John frowned at him and shook his head.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave." John stiffened. "This is not your dog and we can take it from here."

"No, you can't. I'll be taking her home."

The doctor sighed. "I'm sorry, but there's protocol. A seven day waiting period. She could have a home, a family out looking for her."

John raised himself up, eyes hardening. "You know as well as I do that a state like this takes months, if not years to get to. If she has a family, it's a damned horrible one."

Did the dog just wince?

"Sir, for a dog like her, there is only one option." John didn't like where this was going. He could feel the dog stiffening beside him. "Look at her. She's suffering."

"No."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said, no. You are not putting her to sleep." Where was this coming from?

"I'm sorry, but it's not your decision. You aren't the dog's owner."

"I'll pay."

"What?"

"The bill. I'll pay the bill. Then she's mine, right?"

The doctor sighed, glancing down at the dog, who glared back at him in spite of herself. Her chest was shaved so John could see the bullet hole, fresh blood leaking unceremoniously from it, but not as much as before. It took all of another five minutes of convincing for John to assume custody of the dog. He couldn't believe what he was doing. He should have his head examined, but it didn't feel right to leave this dog to die.

"If you can catch her, she's yours," the vet said dryly, handing him the slip leash. _Fair enough._

John knelt down in front of the dog. Her attention snapped back to him, her eyes wary and guarded. He reached out a hand and she growled, pushing herself further back into the wall until John was convinced she might disappear. He withdrew the hand and noticed a flicker of something...confusion? crossing her eyes.

"Easy," he cooed, making his voice smooth and gentle. "Easy. I'm not going to hurt you."

She just stared at him like he was crazy and he felt oddly self conscious, but he pushed on.

"You're alright. There's no reason to be afraid," he said, easing forward just a little. The dog growled and he stopped. "Shhhhh. I'm not going to hurt you." She snorted, her tongue flicking out between her teeth in a nervous gesture. If he didn't know better, he might've thought she was mocking him. Her breathing was ragged, her focus completely on him. He crawled forward just a bit more, aware of the vet and his techs watching him, but not caring. This time the dog just stared at him. Encouraged, he opened the loop of the leash a bit more and raised it enough to slip over her head.

Her growl became more desperate and he noticed her eyes flicking back and forth in search of escape. But both doors were closed. "Hey, hey," he said softly and her attention returned to him. "It's okay. You're okay." He held the leash there and her eyes flitted between it and his face, almost as if she was searching for something. He gave her an encouraging smile, although he wasn't sure why. Regardless, it seemed to have the desired effect. After a few minutes of hovering there, the dog uncurled from her corner...just a fraction. He leaned forward a bit more and slipped the leash over her head. She tensed, shrinking back into the wall, but didn't growl.

Once the leash was on, the dog just stared at him, watching him. He felt self conscious, like he was under a microscope.

"So what shall I put for the name?" the vet asked resignedly.

John deliberated for a moment, glancing at the dog. Then he smiled, and said, "Sherly. Her name is Sherly."


End file.
